Punk Stars and Hypocrites
by DeathThePanda
Summary: Arthur, a famous British punk singer is on tour with his sort of boyfriend Francis, when he meets Alfred, a cheerful American, who he accidentally kisses when drunk, and soon Alfred is falling for him. FrUK and USUK, rated T for Francis's mind and Arthur's mouth. Angsty.


He tried to catch his breath from running. He was a singer, not a track star. His blond hair was wind blown and he had tried to fix it, but his hair had always been unruly. A fact that had annoyed his mom when he was younger.

The fan girls screams were getting closer, so he pushed off from the wall, and began to run again, his trainers slapping against the sidewalk. A corner was coming up, so he quickly rounded it, running straight into somebody.

"Watch where you're going, you git." He growled, jumping up, the sounds of his name spurring him to run again.

"You're the one who ran into me!" The other man protested, slowly standing up. "It's not my fault." The other man appeared a couple of years younger than himself.

The singer waited for recognition to show in the brunet's bright blue eyes. It didn't.

"You almost broke my glasses." He accused, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Yeah. Whatever. I have to get going."

"Oh! Hey, you're that brit. Um. Henry or something."

"Arthur Kirkland." Arthur responded, rather crossly. He was famous, and this American didn't even realize who he was.

"Oh. Yeah. My sister loves you or something. All right, bye."

Americans were so rude. Arthur grumpily thought. Couldn't even remember his name when he was the hottest new star in American culture. Of course his own country already knew him, and loved him, but then some Americans discovered him, and now he was on tour around America. And some bloody idiot didn't even know who he was.

"Arthur!" The screeches started to get louder, so he began to run, yet again. His hotel should've been around somewhere. Key word, should've.

There weren't that many people on the streets, and the ones that were didn't seem to recognize him, which annoyed him a little bit. Back in Britain, he hadn't been able to take a step outside of his house for fear of being swamped by people. Would he have to call, dare he say it, that dammed frog? He stopped and looked around.

There was a nice cafe right in front of him, and a pub, oh excuse him, bar behind him. He looked for a street sign, but didn't see one. He could find his own way back to his hotel. He didn't have to call that Frenchie.

Twelve blocks later...

The sun was beginning to set, and he didn't realize it when the noise from his fan girls died down. Maybe, just this once, he could sacrifice his pride and call him. He slumped against the nearest lamp post, and dug his cell phone out of his pocket, the chains on his belt jingling as he did so.

"Bonjour, this is Francis Bonnefoy speaking. May I ask who is calling?"

The idiot must have not checked his caller ID or he would've been greeted with a string of French words, filled with love. Ugh.

"Shut up. I need you to come get me. America is too weird and confusing."

"I don't know, dear. I'm pretty busy at the moment." Francis lied, tossing back his long, wavy blond hair that Arthur always told him that it made him look like a girl, but Francis didn't really care.

"Goddammit! Just come get me!" Arthur yelled, causing a woman waiting at the crosswalk to give him a scandalized look. He ignored her.

"Fine." Francis melodramatically sighed, before a devious grin sneaked onto his face. "Only if you tell me that you love me."

Arthur promptly hung up on the bastard.

Francis hummed as he brushed his hair . My, wasn't it looking beautiful that night. All shiny and the waves looked just perfect. Any minute now, and his Arthur would call him back, and plead with him to take him back to their hotel, and he would be so thankful that he would invite him into his room to show him his 'appreciation', and then...

His phone ringing startled him out of his fantasies, and he looked down at his phone to see Arthur's face engulfing the screen. An angry face at that. How adorable. He let it ring for a few more rings, but he picked it up on the last one.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I love you." He muttered, unhappily. "Now will you come get me?"

"I always knew it! I love you too, Arthur!"

"Shut up, and come get me."

"Where are you at?"

Arthur told him the name of the park and hospital that he was in between. "I'm right in the middle of those two."

"What I wouldn't give to get you in between me and my bed." Francis sighed, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

"Just come and get me! Don't give me any of that romantic crap."

"If you didn't want me coming onto you, then why did you call me instead of somebody like your manager?"

"If I had called Elizabeta, then she would have made me call you anyways, just so she could try and watch our 'reunion'." Arthur shuddered at the thought. His manager was weird. Once she had found out that he and Francis were lovers, she had shoved them in a closet, and told them not to come out until they filmed everything.

Arthur had to pay for the door being broken.

"I'll be right over, my love." Francis hurriedly hung up so that Arthur couldn't yell at him anymore. That was funny. There was a park right outside his window. And there was a hospital right next to their hotel. Francis laughed. His Arthur could be so headstrong and silly. He peered out of the window, but couldn't see his Brit.

...

Arthur scowled at the American. "Isn't it bad enough that you ran into me earlier? Now you dump coffee on my clothes?"

"I said my bad! And you ran into me earlier, not the other way around."

Arthur shook his head. "Just be quiet, and go away."

"You can send me the dry cleaner bill, if you want." He offered, opening his wallet, and pulling out a card.

Arthur stared at the proffered card. It read: "Samuel F. Jones" And under it, in smaller print, "Attorney", then under that was a number, an email, and an address.

"You're an attorney?"

"Ah. Nah. That's my uncle's card, I'm in college. He'll pay for it, if you explain."

"It's just a spill." Somehow, this man was sort of mellowing him out. "It's no big deal."

His words seemed to make the man happier. "I'm Alfred, by the way."

"Arthur."

"I know that." His grin widened. "My little sister, Maddie, loves your music. It's all she ever talks about. Well you and the Bonnefoy guy. You know, that guy you did a duet with last month?"

"Yeah." Arthur grimaced at the reminder. Where was Francis? "I'm actually on tour with him now."

"Oh. Cool." Was Arthur just imagining things, or did Alfred' s smile dim, just a bit? "I should probably let you go. See ya." Alfred went across the street, and disappeared into the park.

Arthur turned around to see Francis standing outside of the hotel next to the hospital. He wasn't smiling. Arthur went over to him.

"Who was that." A shadow covered his eyes.

"Just some bloke who spilled coffee all over me." It wasn't that noticeable. After all, he was wearing a black T-shirt.

"Do you love him more than me?" Francis's words were almost a whisper.

"Stop being an idiot!" Arthur shouted, the tips of his ears turning red. "I love you." His own voice dropped on the last sentence.

Catching him by surprise, Francis pulled him into a hug. Right in the middle of the sidewalk. Where anybody could be watching, and taking a picture of them.

"Get off me! We're in public." Arthur tried to shake him off, they were attracting curious looks.

Once Arthur finally extricated himself from the other blond, he was surprised to see tears in Francis's eyes. "I'm sorry, but I love you."

"Just take me back to the hotel." Arthur wanted to comfort him, but wanted to wait until they were inside, away from prying eyes.

Francis laughed. "We're in front of it."

Was his lover having mood swings or something? Was Francis PMSing? And he was in front of the hotel? God. He was embarrassed now. He grabbed Francis's arm, and pulled him inside.

The rode the elevator in silence, Francis lacing their fingers together, and Arthur decided to let it slide, just this one time. Once the elevator arrived at the sixth floor, Francis dragged him out, and into his room, opposite his own room.

"I love you. It broke my heart to see you talking to that kid."

"You're too emotional." Arthur scoffed. "Like a girl."

"Maybe. But you're the girl in this relationship."

"Shut up, you bloody idiot." Now his cheeks were glowing red.

"It was purely platonic though, right?" Francis's sapphire eyes were wide and pleading.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I talked to him for a few minutes. No need to get envious."

Francis sighed, clearly relieved, and leaned down to kiss his lover. Arthur closed his eyes, and tilted his head. When Francis's warm, soft lips touched his, he melted into the older man, and wrapped his arms around his waist. In his mind, a jovial pair of blue eyes appeared, that did not belong to Francis. He broke the kiss.

"What's wrong, dear?"

"Nothing. We have to get ready." Arthur ran a hand through his hair, effectively messing it up even more.

Francis tsked. "You can't go on like that. Let me fix it."

"No! You'll make it look neat and proper."

"There's nothing wrong with trying to make your hair look good for your fans."

"You want my fans to be attracted to me?" Arthur raised a rather furry eyebrow, which Francis always tried to convince him to pluck, but his fans thought it added 'character' or whatever.

"I'm not worried about them. I know you're gay." Francis dismissed that thought, and kissed his forehead. "Now go change out of those raggedy clothes.

...

After the show (which went rather well, even though he normally didn't like to sing with Francis since he would make perverted remarks while they were waiting to go on, or he would do something that threatened to expose their relationship), Francis took him to a bar. Like every time when Arthur drank, he got plastered.

" Oh! Mon dieu! Arthur, we have to go. It's getting late."

"No. You goooo. I wanna stay 'ere." Arthur drunkenly slurred.

"Come on, Arthur. You have to go to bed. You're getting too drunk."

"I dun wanna." Arthur shook his head, and nearly fell out of his chair.

"But, Arthur. Come on." Francis stood up, and tried to pick him up.

"Go away, Francy. I'll leave soon."

Francis melted at the pet name. Arthur never was affectionate. "If you aren't back at the hotel in thirty minutes, I'm coming back for you."

"'Kay." Arthur rested his head on the counter, and blacked out.

...

"Arthur. What is this." Francis's strained voice woke up the British punk singer.

"What?" Arthur blinked groggily. His head felt like somebody was pounding a nail through his head. He slowly sat up. "Close those curtains." How did he get back to the hotel?

"What. Is. This."

He felt something land on his covered legs, and he blindly groped for it. "I don't know. Go away. I want to sleep." He turned over in his bed.

"I'm not going away until you explain this!" Francis's words were high and shrill, signaling that something was really wrong.

Arthur sat up in bed, and rubbed the crud out of his eyes. "Bleeding Hell. What is so important?"

Francis dropped the magazine in his lap. "I leave you alone for thirty minutes, and you go off making out with the guy, whose relationship with you is 'purely platonic'?"

"What are you blabbering about?"

"Just look at it!"

On the front cover of the tabloid, Arthur was holding a blushing Alfred by his tie, kissing him, and Arthur swore he could see some tongue. Written at the top in bold was: "New British punk star gay?"

It became hard to swallow. "I don't remember that." He immediately said.

"You won't even touch me in public, but you will kiss, no French kiss, some college kid that you met yesterday?!" Francis yelled, tears streaming down his face. "I was never serious about any relationship that I had, until we started dating. I loved you, Arthur."

"Loved me? Why don't you love me anymore?" Arthur questioned, bewildered. He got up out of bed.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. But I think we should break up." Francis looked at the ground, away from Arthur's shocked green eyes.

"B-but, I was drunk! Francis! I don't even remember his name!" The said, though he did. "You shouldn't have left me at the bar! You know I can't hold my alcohol." Even though it hurt his pride to admit it, he couldn't.

"I was serious about you, and you go and cheat on me."

"Come on, Francis. It won't happen again. That was a one time thing. Please, I still love you."

Francis looked up, and rushed to hug Arthur. "I'm sorry. I overreacted. You're right. I can be too emotional." The tears began to fall harder as he held Arthur. "I'm so sorry."

"No. I should be sorry. I can't believe I kissed any other man than you."

...

When he walked out of the hotel, he didn't have to worry about seeing any fan girls. It seemed his entire population of fans died overnight.

"Fag." Some guy growled, shoving him, sending him into the sidewalk. Arthur scowled, and got up. This was a new sensation for him. He had gotten used to being adored by everyone.

The magazine was everywhere. It haunted him as he walked down the street.

"Arthur!" A sort of familiar voice yelled. That voice made him dread turning around.

Alfred was running down the street. When he saw Arthur had stopped, he slowed down. "I'm so sorry! It's all my fault. I was flirting with you, and then you just kissed me, and I was too stunned to move you away, and then that person took the photo, and now it's all over the news, and nobody likes you anymore, and my sister punched me when she realized that it was me in the photograph." Alfred rambled, his words almost unintelligible.

"Shut up, you idiot. You've only ruined my whole career."

After he had talked to Francis that morning, Elizabeta had called him, telling him that all of the other places he was going to perform at had canceled. It wasn't hard to imagine why. Of course Elizabeta had chastised him for cheating on Francis, but Arthur explained the temporary

lapse in his judgement.

Alfred face fell at his words. "You don't know how sorry I am."

"You can't be as sorry as I am."

"I was just wondering if, maybe, you might want to go out and get some coffee or something sometime." Alfred mumbled, twirling a lock of his hair.

"No."

If it was even possible, Alfred's face fell even more. "Oh."

"I get drunk easily. Last night meant nothing to me. Just leave. I have to go have lunch with my boyfriend." Arthur brushed past Alfred, who was slack jawed.

He had left to go to the restaurant early, since Francis always complained about him being late. The place was just around the corner. He turned it, and easily spied the boldly colored restaurant, and rolled his eyes. Of course Francis would like the flamboyancy of it. He spotted Francis's long hair through the storefront window, when he noticed that he was talking to a giggling waitress.

Her face was red, and she kept fiddling with her lengthy dark hair. It was obvious that Francis was flirting with her, which made Arthur frown, but he shook it off since that was just Francis. He flirted with anything that could breathe. Her face reddened even more as he took her hand, and she lead him into the back.

Arthur stared at their retreating figures. Where exactly were they going? He was tempted to go in, but he stood outside, waiting for them to come back.

Somebody shoved into him again, and he almost fell to the sidewalk, but he quickly regained his balance, and stood closer to the glass.

Two minutes turned into five. Five minutes turned into ten. Ten minutes turned into fifteen. Twenty minutes later, they came out, and Francis took a seat at a booth.

The girl's face was even redder than when Francis was flirting with her. She kept trying to fix her messed up hair.

Francis looked perfect, as usual, except for one side of his lavender button up shirt which was un tucked.

Arthur clenched his hands into fists, and went inside to sit across from Francis.

"Arthur." The stupid Frenchman greeted him, his smile wide, reminding him of Alfred.

How could he act like nothing happened between him and somebody else? Arthur didn't know the details, but he bet that they got intimate. Very intimate.

"Why did you do that."

"Do what, love?"

It was relatively loud in the restaurant, keeping their words private. A few people pointed at them and whispered.

"You know perfectly well what I mean, you French bastard."

Francis looked surprised. Whenever Arthur would swear at him, it was almost always jokingly or him just being embarrassed, but this time, it was filled with venom.

"Arthur? What do you mean?"

"I saw you. You and her. You went into the back room with her. What happened?"

Francis showed no shame. "You mean me and that waitress?"

"Yes," Arthur hissed, "you and that waitress."

"That was nothing."

"You get so angry at me for drunkenly kidding a man, and break up with me, but when you and some girl go do whatever, it's nothing?! You hypocrite!"

"You're causing a scene, Arthur." Francis sighed. "You're so childish."

"What did you do with her?" Arthur lowered his voice to try and call down.

"It was nothing, Arthur. Calm down."

"I can't believe you." Arthur scowled. "If you didn't tell me, then I'm going to assume the worst."

"Go ahead."

Arthur wished that they were at a table, so he could push his chair back, maybe let it hit the ground, and angrily storm out, but instead he did this weird scooching thing to get out of the booth, his pants tried to stick to the vinyl, and he almost fell getting out.

"Where are you going, Arthur?" Francis slid out, effortlessly.

"We're over." Arthur huffed, stalking out of the restaurant, after he left, he peeked behind to see if Francis would come running after him. He didn't. Arthur ducked his head, and went back to his hotel room.

He curled up on his bed. So what if his career was totally over. So what if his lover of two years didn't care about him. So what if he had been absolutely rude to the only person who possibly cared about him. What he wouldn't give to have Alfred with him.

(A/N: What is this... I don't even know. Facepalm. This is just sort of long and rambling. I'm going to post it anyways because this is the longest one shot that I've ever done. And yes, I know the majority of the world isn't homophobic, but I don't really care. I just wanted to make it as angsty as possible. So yeah, leave a review. I guess. This is the product of what happens when I get don't feel like doing homework. My apologies for the sucky title. I hate titles.

Disclaimer: DeathThePanda doesn't own Hetalia, and all that jazz)


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